


Where the Love Light Gleams: The Cellist Part 1

by desperationandgin



Series: The Cellist [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperationandgin/pseuds/desperationandgin
Summary: After an accident that changes Claire Randall's life, she comes face to face with the man who saved her.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Series: The Cellist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578169
Comments: 61
Kudos: 350





	Where the Love Light Gleams: The Cellist Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first fic for the inaugural Winter of Want! Thank you so much to smashingteacups and missclairebelle for being my partners in crime! Also, thank you to them as well as happytoobserve for being betas! And thank you so much to fierceweebadger for the beautiful moodboard she made that you can see on tumblr. I'm so grateful to all of my people ❤
> 
> On with the story!

The first time he’d ever seen Claire Randall she was a broken woman, close to being consumed by flames, blood matting dark curls to her forehead and neck. She’d been hanging upside down by her seatbelt, and he’d worked to get her out while the rest of his crew battled the fire and pulled the driver from the wreckage.

A husband and wife who’d been heading home, according to the upside-down ( _but still functioning_ ) GPS. Witnesses explained the husband swerved to miss a deer, sideswiped an oncoming truck, and flipped the car down an embankment. Sparks set the dry grass on fire, and by the time help had arrived, strangers were attempting to use any spare water they could to stop the blaze’s progress. 

Jamie’d known the husband died instantly, but when he asked the lass what her name was during a moment of consciousness, she’d looked right at him and he had no doubt she would live. The sheer will in those amber eyes was too intense to go out, too stubborn. It had only been a second, but in that brief moment of awareness, she’d said her name as calmly as if they were on a still sea.

 _Claire_.

She’d lost consciousness again after that, and Jamie had relinquished her to the medics. After his shift, he’d checked with the hospital, discovered she would live, and gone home. He’d thought about visiting her, but he was a stranger and her husband was dead. It didn’t seem like the time to introduce himself, though a part of him, perhaps, hoped that she would reach out to him, want to meet the person who saved her. The call never came, and he prayed the young widow was able to move on with her life, find some sort of happiness again. His dreams reminded him of her periodically, but over the next five years, all that he could remember were those _eyes_.

Until he walks into the Firefighter’s Charity Ball and there she is, on a stage flanked by seven others. Amid various Christmas decor, the woman he’d last seen bloody and fragile, plays the cello, the symphonic strains of _O Come, All Ye Faithful_ filling the room thanks to the small octet. He stares, unable to look away, lips parting to see her so vibrant. So _alive_. She looks bonny, better than, with her curls floating like a cloud around her head. She’s in a simple black dress with the barest hint of her calves showing as she plays, and he’s sure he’s never wanted to know another woman this badly in his life.

Taking a sip of whisky as he admires the way she plays, the song fades, and she begins to put aside her bow. Before Jamie can look away, her eyes land directly on him.

She has no idea who he is.

He can see it in the way her gaze drifts immediately, looking out at the crowd before refocusing on her sheet music.

She has no idea that the man who saved her life is standing right in front of her.

It’s an hour before the musicians take a break, and Jamie finds her immediately, trying to decide how to approach her. He can’t very well ask her to recall something so horrible, so he introduces himself as a stranger, eggnog in hand to offer.

“Ye play verra beautifully, if ye dinna mind me sayin’ so,” he praises, holding out the glass. He’s formally dressed in his uniform and doesn’t miss the way her eyes land first at his chest, then make their way up slowly, taking her time.

At least he knows she’s interested.

“Thank you,” she replies with a soft smile and dip of her head. “I’ve always loved playing this time of year.”

“Does yer wee group make the rounds often around the holidays?” Jamie asks as he takes a sip of his drink, casually slipping a hand into his pocket, trying very hard not to think about _wanting_ her.

Claire lets out a breath of air through her nose, a laugh, and smiles around the rim of her glass, shaking her head. “My _wee group_ and I are part of the Scottish Symphony Orchestra. I’m first chair.” It’s an illumination dropped as casually as if she’d said she majored in English.

His eyes widen, adding her occupation and position with the orchestra to the list of things he knows to be true of her. ( _The others being her sheer will to survive and her determined gaze_.) “That’s quite the achievement; I didna realize ye could ask for parts of the whole at an event.”

“Well, you can when you’re married to the conductor,” she informs him. “The event planner for tonight just happens to be, and this is a good cause, so I’m sure strings were pulled. No pun intended.” Claire meets his gaze with a softened one of her own. “Thank you. For risking your life to save others.”

He thinks she might tell him her story, a perfect segue for him to introduce himself, but instead, she simply tells him her name.

“I’m Claire Randall. It’s nice to meet you.” She extends her hand, and his first thought is that she never remarried, though he mentally admonishes himself immediately.

“Jamie Fraser. And ye dinnae need to thank me, though I appreciate it. Do ye get to enjoy yourself this evening, or is it all business?”

“Oh, I’m strictly the help,” she replies with a dazzling smile that makes his knees weak and his heart pound.

Christ, he feels like an _eejit_ trying to come up with a way to keep her talking, to not go anywhere and leave him without her warmth. “If that’s the case then, how would ye feel about taking down my number?” Something, anything to keep a connection between them.

Watching his face, Claire finishes off her eggnog before checking the time and setting her glass down. “I feel you should wait until after the event is over and walk me home. I’m only a few blocks up. Then we’ll see if your number’s earned a place in my phone.”

The way she smiles at him before turning to go back toward the stage makes him feel as though he might be the only person she’s ever smiled at in _exactly_ that way. 

Jamie’s plan, initially, had been to leave after dessert, two hours well-spent mingling. Now, as the third-hour rolls by and people begin saying goodbyes, he watches the mini-orchestra perform one last medley of songs. It’s a good opportunity to study how focused Claire is when she plays her instrument, how her fingers seem to float, moved by something supernatural. He notices now that her arms are solid and toned, idly wondering how many years she’s been playing. He longs to hear her alone, the spotlight only on her.

As the playing concludes, Claire’s eyes move from the sheet music to Jamie, the intensity of their stare causing the air to seemingly crackle around them. Neither of them moves, and so she’s watching as he frowns and looks down, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He isn’t the only one — five others seem to stop what they’re doing and check for something.

It’s immediately clear that he has to leave.

Knowing the party is over anyway, Jamie makes his way to the stage, meeting her halfway down.

“You have to go?”

“Aye,” he breathes out, watching as she reaches into the folds of her dress and pulls out a business card. Taking it from her, Jamie wastes no time, grabbing the pen from his breast pocket, writing his number, and returning the card. “Let this be on your terms, Sassenach,” he assures her, then lightly snags her hand, kissing the top of her knuckles softly.

He’s gone before she can ask him what the hell a _Sassenach_ is.

The next night, armed with wine and her laptop, Claire sits ( _in the company of her ‘she adopted me’ black cat, Sesh, and a Joni Mitchell playlist_ ) and Googles one _Jamie Fraser_ of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Service. Clicking over to an image search, she takes a sip of wine and hums at the first photo on the page. It’s him, most assuredly, running in a marathon, sweaty, biceps proudly showing, and somehow looking directly into the camera.

“I sincerely hope there was an emergency last night, Sesh,” Claire mutters, feeling a pang of shame for the thought, but not for long; soon enough it’s replaced by sheer want, before even _that’s_ replaced by a guilt different from the first. She’s been reassured, not by one friend or even two ganging together, but four, that she deserves to be happy again or, at the very least, deserves a good roll in the hay with someone.

Those had been Gillian’s words, agreed-upon emphatically by both John — and in the ultimate betrayal — Joe _plus_ his wife. She knew five years was more than enough time, but since the accident, there’d been no reason to seek out something that would only leave her feeling emptier than she had before. No one captivated her attention, no one made her want to get to know them better. She’s been happy to not risk her heart again and live in a quiet bubble alone.

Until last night.

She’d glimpsed him after finishing the first song of the evening, her eyes attracted to that shock of red curls in the audience. When he’d approached her, she found herself unable to keep the flirting from rolling right off of her tongue. He’d undone her somehow in the span of _perhaps_ twenty minutes, all told. She remembers his hasty exit, which reminds her to open a new tab and begin typing into the search bar.

 _Sass_ -

“Oh, bloody hell. What was it?” she mutters, trying to recall it, to sound it out phonetically.

_Sass-in-ach_

Claire goes with it, appreciates the _Showing Results For Sassenach_ correction, and reads aloud, mumbling the words. “‘An English person.’ That’s not very creative, is it?” Though she has to admit, it sounded nice coming from him. It’s different, and she wonders if he calls every English person he meets the same thing.

Going back to her original search, she clicks out of the images, skimming the links until one catches her eye. The date, in particular.

_January 24th, 2014._

The day of the accident.

Putting her wine down and sitting up straight, Claire hesitates a fraction of a second before pulling up the story. She’s immediately greeted by an image of her own crumpled and overturned vehicle, and for a moment, she can do nothing but stare at it, trying to remember herself inside. John had taken her to see it two weeks after the funeral, helped her get the things out of the boot ( _her cello, protected in its case, a suitcase and carry on from her recent trip to the States_ ), and she hasn’t seen it since. When she’s finally able to scroll past the image, she reads about details she can’t remember, and then there’s Jamie, being praised as a hero.

_“‘I only knew I had to get the lass out of the vehicle, so I paid no mind to the flames. I had to trust that my colleagues had control of the situation while I managed to cut the passenger free,’ explained Jamie Fraser, one of the first responders on the scene. Thanks to his quick action, the female passenger is said to be making a full recovery. His efforts will be celebrated by Chief Fire Officer Blunden—”_

She doesn’t bother to read any further. Every thought she has seems to fall on top of the next until one finally becomes clear: Jamie Fraser saved her life.

“Oh, my God.”

Sesh seems unbothered, slow-blinking up at her as the pieces come together. He’d seen her, sought her out. Did he remember her? Know who she was at the event? It’s only after she’s dialed the number he wrote on her card that she realizes it’s very nearly one in the morning. “ _Fuck_.” She’s moving her thumb to disconnect just as she hears a muffled grunt. Freezing in surprise, the phone goes back to her ear as she speaks quietly.

“Hello?”

“Was that a suggestion, Sassenach?”

His voice is low and thick with sleep, but somehow his humor’s still quick, and she coughs, wetting her lips. “No, no, only that I didn’t mean to call you so late. I lost track of—”

_Christ, cut to the chase, Beauchamp._

“Do you remember saving my life?”

The silence on the other end hangs for what feels like hours, but she hears the faint sound of what she assumes is Jamie sitting up in bed, readjusting the grip he has on his phone.

“Aye, I do. Do _you_ remember it, Claire?”

Closing her eyes, she tries, but her memory stops just after Frank picked her up from the airport. “No. You pulled me out of the car?”

“I cut ye free and then got ye clear of the accident.” He pauses, sitting in the dark of his flat, worried about her. “Ye dinnae need to think about it, Claire,” he tells her gently.

“You saved my life, Jamie, that’s what I’m thinking of. They asked me when I was in recovery if I wanted to meet you, but I couldn’t — I’d just lost my husband, I wasn’t thinking about meeting _anyone_.”

When Jamie speaks again, his voice is soft and even, meant to soothe. “There’s no reason ye need to explain anything. It was five years ago, Sassenach, and yer life was changed forever. I’m no’ going to hold anything against ye.”

For four heartbeats, quiet lingers between them before Claire speaks again. “I realize tomorrow is Christmas Eve, you’ve probably got plans of some sort, but I would like to see you if I can.”

 _If_ there’d been a hint of grogginess left in him, he’s fully awake now, squinting in the dark. “Ye dinnae have yer own plans?”

“Well, my husband died.”

Grunting in surprise at her response, Jamie rubs a hand over the top of his head, thinking. “I dinnae have anywhere to be until noon on Christmas Day, so my Eve is all yours, Sassenach, if ye want it.”

Christ, she doesn’t know if he meant to sound alluring or not, so she stays neutral. “Only if you’re sure.”

“Do ye ken where Victoria Park is?”

She’s nodding before she remembers she needs to respond aloud. “The park with the bowling greens?”

“Aye, and the walking paths. There are benches, good for sitting and talking for a while if ye’d like.” He meant it when he told her before that anything between them should be on her terms, and that was before she connected the dots. He doesn’t know what it is to lose a spouse, but he imagines the prospect of speaking about it is daunting.

In the silence that waits for her response, Claire looks down at the gold ring on her finger, thumb lightly stroking the cool metal. She tries to imagine it, her heart being wide open again and susceptible to breaking. Closing her eyes, she remembers that Jamie smelled vaguely of citrus and sage and the specific blue of his eyes was like an afternoon sky on a cloudless day. Comforting and warm.

It’s an easy decision when the memory of his _gaze_ on her causes a flush. 

“I would like that, Jamie.”

* * *

They decide to meet at ten in the morning when the park is between hosting late A.M. joggers and parents with toddlers. She wanders toward the spot they’re meeting, under a grove of trees home to a row of benches. Slowing her pace as she approaches, Claire gives herself a few steps to admire him, the cut of his hips and the way his muscles move even under his coat.

Christ, he’s made an impression.

And then she remembers that this is the man who saved her life, features softening when he looks up and spots her.

“Ye made it. I was worried the directions were too vague,” he admits, standing to greet her.

“In the summer there’s a beautiful patch of wild yellow flowers just across the sidewalk. It’s gorgeous, I used to come often when I first moved here.”

They walk back to the bench together and sit, though neither one of them knows exactly how to begin the conversation. Eventually, it’s Claire who breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry. For not trying to find you after the accident.”

Jamie’s shaking his head before she’s done speaking. “Ye dinnae have to apologize for it, as I told ye last night.” He stops short of saying he was doing his job, but it was more than that. He knew it the moment she looked at him. “I did check in on ye, just to be sure ye’d be alright. But I kent there was no’ much I could do or say to make anything better for ye.” And he hadn’t wanted to drop in unannounced only to make things worse for her in some way.

Studying her hands, she drags her thumb along the lifeline, closing her eyes. She remembers getting into the car at the airport. Begging Frank to turn off talk radio so they could have a conversation. She remembers him laughing at something she said, and then, nothing. “I woke up in the hospital and couldn’t remember what happened. They told me there’d been an accident, and I think I knew my husband was dead before they said it.”

He moves his hand to cover one of hers without thinking, so when she squeezes his fingers he holds on tightly, aware now of the weight of her palm and the delicate skin of her wrist under his thumb.

“I didn’t touch my cello for a year afterward. I’d somehow convinced myself it was my fault, that if I hadn’t traveled to play, he wouldn’t have picked me up from the airport, there wouldn’t have been an accident.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I don’t believe that now, but it felt better to blame myself for a little while.” 

She’s kept her grip on him, squeezing again as she takes a breath and lets it out slowly.

“When I finally got to ye,” he begins quietly, looking down at their hands, “ye were unconscious. I went to cut off the seatbelt and yer eyes opened, ye looked directly at me. I asked your name, and ye said it, so…” Jamie trails off, unable to find the right words for it. “As though ye’d been waiting for me to ask. Then ye were out again and that was the last I saw of ye.”

Her eyes fall to their hands as well, and she turns hers over so that their fingertips are touching.

“But I kent ye would live. I could see it in yer eyes, that ye’re a lass wi’ spirit,” he tells her with a soft smile. “And I ken ye know it now, but it wasna yer fault, Claire.”

She does know, but hearing it feels like balm on an aching wound. “Thank you for saving my life, Jamie.” Lifting her gaze, she studies his face and admires the sharp angle of his jaw, the tawny scruff there. 

There’s _something_ between them, he can feel it as if a living, pulsing thing. He’s aware of each breath she takes, the rise and fall of her chest; he feels it as surely as his own body moving, both of them separate pieces of a complete being.

“I’m glad that it was me, Sassenach. I cannae explain it, but—”

“But it was supposed to be you,” Claire finishes. Jamie was meant to save her, no one else could have.

Raising her hand to his lips, Jamie frowns lightly upon pulling back. “Your hands are like ice, Sassenach. Let me buy ye something warm,” he offers. “There’s a wee cafe nearby.”

In truth, if it were a way to spend more time with him, it didn’t matter what they did or where they went. 

Claire smiles, charmed the moment he said wee.

* * *

It was inevitable, really, that they fall into bed with one another. Under the pretense of dinner ( _which they did eat; an easy meal of pasta in lemon sauce and good crusty bread for soaking up the remnants_ ), she’d agreed to go back to his flat. They’d both known it wasn’t going to be about the food for long.

She sleeps now with her head resting on his outstretched arm, facing him. His hand has been numb for hours, but he wouldn’t dream of moving her, not now. Not when he has the pleasure of seeing up close the light dusting of freckles across her cheekbones and nose. He can see the way her eyelashes curl upward slightly, and he revels in the feel of her breath falling against his skin. Reaching out, Jamie’s fingers lightly brush a stray curl from her cheek, his touch as gentle as possible so as not to wake her. Her skin is so delicate, like fine porcelain, and he slowly drags the tips of his fingers down her side. There’s a scar that begins on her hip, and he follows the feel of it down as far as he can reach. _From the accident_ , she’d said, just before he’d leaned down to kiss the mark right in the center.

When Claire shifts, Jamie freezes, hand hovering as she finally moves off of his arm and tucks herself onto her side, with her back to him now. When she seems settled, he slowly moves onto his side behind her, curving his body into the hollow of hers. Tucking his legs behind her knees, he rests his hand on her hip, the other arm stretched protectively over her. Taking a chance, he ducks his head and kisses the beauty mark on her shoulder, his touch as light as he can make it. Then he finds he can’t stop himself from continuing his tender assault across her skin. She moves again, and his hand rests against her stomach, lightly holding on as he goes still.

“I’m not likely to go anywhere,” she whispers in the dark, hint of a smile in her voice.

Discovered, Jamie presses firmer kisses to her skin, giving up any pretense of being careful. “Good. I didna plan to let ye up from this bed soon,” he warns.

Smiling, Claire rolls herself under him, both of them shifting until he’s comfortably above her. Glancing toward the window, she raises an eyebrow, only able to see him in the dark because of a faintly glowing streetlamp. “From the looks of it, we still have plenty of sleeping to do.”

“Aye. Plenty of late night left. Which means plenty of time to sleep. In a bit.” He has no plans of letting her get back to it right away as his head ducks and lips press to the middle of her chest.

“You don’t seem very tired.” Already, she’s flushing, trying to anticipate where his mouth might go next.

“I’ve found my second wind, though I have a verra distinct feeling that it won’t be hard to want ye all the time.” He drops a kiss to the curve of her breast, marveling in the way her flesh softly yields.

“Does that mean you’d like to see me again?” she queries, voice soft, not wanting to assume.

Immediately, Jamie raises his head, eyes meeting hers so that she can see the truth of his words.

“I’d like to see ye every day for the rest of my life, Sassenach. If it suits ye.”

She’s so shocked by his words that she laughs; not at him but at the idea that she _can_ laugh again, in the company of a man who wants her. “I’m sure we could work out some sort of arrangement, though I realize this time you have right now is a luxury.”

“It is,” he murmurs, resuming the self-imposed task of kissing her skin, dipping low to begin a slow descent. “But the consecutive days off are verra worth it, ye ken? If I have you to look forward to, I reckon I could get through anything.”

She sighs in contentment as her legs part to make a home for him. “You look forward to me?” She smiles softly, just as her breath catches at a well-placed kiss to her pelvis.

“Only someone wi’ out all five senses wouldna look forward to ye, _mo nigheann donn_.”

Claire stops him with a soft tug of his curls, and when he raises his head she arches an eyebrow, curiosity in her eyes.

“‘My brown-haired lass,’” he answers, knowing her question and bringing one of her legs over his shoulder, parting her with his fingers.

“I very much enjoy it when you speak to me in Gaelic,” she manages, getting it out while she can, knowing she won’t have the capability of _thought_ soon.

Once more, Jamie raises his head, giving her a cheeky grin. “ _Laigh air ais fhad 's a tha mi agad._ ” ( _Lie back while I have ye._ )

She has no idea what he said, but the timbre of his voice, the way his eyes darken — she knows it was filthy, but her amusement gives way to a soft gasp once his mouth finds the slick, heated center of her. A hand immediately moves to the top of his head, lips pressing together as she holds her breath for half a heartbeat and then cries out, back arching. Unable to help herself, she presses her thighs to the sides of his head, only easing up when one of his hands grips her hip tightly. His other rests on her belly, holding her down, keeping her grounded.

His head attempts to move with her body, following each spasm of her hips. He tastes her first climax; she coats his tongue and chin but he doesn’t stop, and when she comes again it’s around two curved fingers, the feel of her going straight to his cock. There’s a third, smaller shockwave, given while tucked against his chest, his hand between them.

Panting against his neck, Claire takes her time coming back to herself, basking in the feel of stretching when thoroughly satisfied. “You are very, _very_ good at that,” she finally manages, very nearly purring in relaxation.

“Weel, I do aim to please, but admittedly, it’s no’ hard to want to make ye writhe like that all the time. Christ, the sounds ye make, and the way yer entire body grips me _just so_.” He’s hard and wanting, aching just a bit at the minutes-old memory. “Ye have no idea the gift ye are.”

His words strike her, and she pulls back, gaze soft as she reaches out, fingertips lightly pressing to his cheek.

“I’m only here because of you.”

Jamie wants to refute it, to insist that she did all the fighting to stay alive. But the truth of it is, she _had_ needed him. She couldn’t have gotten out of that vehicle herself.

“Still. Ye lived, and I ken it was no’ easy for ye.” Lightly, he reaches out to drag his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “Ye needn’t ever worry that ye cannae still grieve him. If this was too soon, too much—”

Claire stops him with the tip of a finger pressed to his lips. For a moment’s pause, she simply looks at him, holds his gaze and makes it clear that she would like to speak. When his lips press softly to her finger, her hand drops and she pushes him lightly onto his back, straddling his hips. That’s all she does, reaching for his hands and holding onto both of them, lacing their fingers together.

“I don’t recall saying anything was too much _or_ too soon. What I can tell you is that for five years, I haven’t let myself feel a thing. Loneliness is a choice, or so they say. And I chose it because it’s a hell of a lot better than losing so much all the time.” She looks down, the hint of more loss than she’s willing to share playing across her features. “I thought it would stay like that, always.”

She’d convinced herself she was fine with it, that the less she risked, the fewer heartbreaks she would need to endure. 

“That plan was working out very well for me until I met you,” she informs him, eyes creasing in the corners as she smiles before speaking seriously again. “I thought I’d lost the ability to feel anything close to this, after a while.” Want and lust and _need_ for another person; all of those things had felt like lost causes.

“What is it about you, Jamie?” As she asks, her hips begin a slow rock against his. “How did you find me?”

He’s captivated by her words and movement, groaning at the feel of her gliding easily along the length of him. “I didna find ye at all,” he manages, raising his head a bit to watch himself disappear into her, finally, inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. Neither of them moves, her eyes closed while his are focused firmly on her face while he fights the urge to move right away.

“Ye came into my life, Claire, and ye never truly left.” A part of him has held onto her, even if it was only a single feature that haunted his dreams. Her soul imprinted on his, and he knows now that he’s complete with her, that it never could have been another way for him.

When she opens her eyes, they’re blown wide with pleasure, pupils dark and lids heavy. He’s staring right at her, and one of her hands reaches for his, bringing it over her chest. She rides him, slowly at first, while her heart pounds against his palm. The pulsing tempo increases beneath his touch as leisurely pleasure begins to turn into something more focused, more urgent. She leans forward, letting go of him only to brace her hands on his chest. He’s holding back, she can feel it, his belly tense beneath her.

When she speaks his name, it’s on a panting breath, and when his eyes open, he knows what she wants, can _see_ it. Reaching out, his hands rest on her hips, and he looks at her one more time to be sure. When she nods, he shores up his grip and then slams into her once, hard, losing his breath at the cry of sheer pleasure it tears from her. He does it again, then again, pistoning his hips upward forcefully, quickly, driving noises from her so beautiful he’s not sure he’ll ever hear anything that could compare. _He’s_ causing her to make those sounds, and he’ll be a damned man if he doesn’t strive to hear her as often as possible.

Jamie slows and Claire takes over, straightening her spine and beginning a pace that means she’s close; she _has_ to be, because there’s no way in Christ’s name he’ll ever make it if not. His hands move up her body and cup around her breasts, squeezing enough to make her tighten around him involuntarily. His groan mingles with her cry of pleasure, and he wills his eyes open, needing to see her. When he does, he’s sure there’s not a better sight in all the world.

Her head is back, exposing the length of her neck, skin begging to know the imprint of his lips over and over again. Her hair sways back and forth, mussed curls seeming to tumble in all directions, and when her head falls forward, Jamie can see that she’s chasing her pleasure, forehead knit right in the center. She’s there, she’s _close_ , and he sneaks one hand between them to touch, rolling that small bud of nerves beneath his thumb.

That’s all it takes for her to shatter, body pitching forward and nearly curling around his. Her breasts sway right before him and he doesn’t fight the urge to lean in, burying his face there. As her body tightens around his, pulling him in, his name becomes a choked cry, unable to get it out without whimpering in the middle. 

She drops her hips one more time and Jamie tenses, arms wrapping around her frame. Her name is nothing more than a strangled sob as he spills into her, teeth lightly scraping her shoulder. He can feel her shaking against him but can do nothing about it; he’s not entirely sure if he’s able to move his arms and legs. 

Eventually, there’s enough of a chill on cooling skin that Jamie reaches for the blankets, covering them up again. The silence between them is comfortable, and she stays right on top of him, unmoving as he begins to doze.

“You know, I’ve realized something,” she whispers, voice sleepy sounding and far away.

He hums, low in the back of his throat. “What’s that, Sassenach?”

As his fingers drag up and down her spine, she turns her head to press a soft kiss to his chest. “It’s clearly after midnight. Which means it’s technically Christmas Day.”

Opening his eyes, Jamie finds himself looking right at her, and his smile is easy, eyes alight with it.

“Well then, _a nighean_.” He leans in close, whispering the words across her lips, thankful for her, an unexpected gift. “Happy Christmas to ye.” He nuzzles her cheek, reaching down to playfully pinch her arse.

Her laughter fills the room, eventually carrying them to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  _The Cellist_ universe will return in January! Hope you all enjoyed :)


End file.
